Audition

Getting there was not too bad. Going over the Walt Whitman Bridge, then south on I-95 past the stadiums and Philadelphia International Airport and picking up the Blue Route went pretty smoothly. It was not intimidating for me, mostly because I worked out that way for a couple years. Getting off the Blue Route at the first exit immediately after getting on was a little dicey - not a lot of room to make the merge onto MacDade, and the 6:45pm traffic was still a bit intense. But it was negotiated cleanly. Arriving at the theater a few minutes later was uneventful, as the directions were well done. Thirty minutes door-to-door, so time-wise the commute was reasonable; still I had to wonder how it would be during a rush-ier hour.

I found the front door and walked up to the sign-in table. There I was behind a man who didn't seem to realize he was in the way of the sign-in sheet unnecessarily. He told the volunteer behind the table the parts he might be right for, and that he had directed the show some years back. I silently questioned the wisdom of divulging that. It can work against an auditioner, particularly if a director thinks the auditioner might not want to perform in the show differently than the way they had directed it previously.

After some minor confusion and paper shuffling caused by the dawdling director, I was told to take an appropriate side and wait my turn. I headed for the comfortable armchair next to the attractive blonde woman. Hey, it was the only comfortable chair available! (And sitting on the floor is not an option.) And I waited. And waited. Etc.

While waiting, I heard the rehearsal sounds of Singing in the Rain coming thru the double doors just a few feet away. Lots of tapping going on, as well as singing. Wishing I'd brought a magazine, I read the company's season brochure. Twice. And I read most of the framed and wall-hung cards (one for every two years) listing the shows done in the 100-plus years (!) of the theater's existence, as well as the plaque commemorating the mortgage-burning party several years ago. Impressive.

I went to use the bathroom, and heard someone speaking inside in a loud voice. I went in to find a younger man wearing a knit cap going over his sides out loud. He apologized, and said he'd do it outside but the temperature was too low (and he was wearing shorts). I said maybe that's why it is called a cold reading. He made a sound like he attempted to laugh, but it was clear that he was too wound up to find anything let-go funny. Later, he came up to me and asked me if I wanted him to read a part opposite mine. I said no thanks. Then it dawned on my what he wanted, and I asked if he wanted me to work with him on his lines. He let it be known that he really appreciated my offer, and we went off to a quiet area, a stairwell, to run thru his sides. At one point I noticed he had removed his cap, which revealed a shaved head, adding to his intensity. He had the passion in his reading, but he was almost out of control with his intensity, and he rushed his lines. I wondered how he would come off with the director.

My turn to make the walk to the room upstairs came after about an hour and forty minutes. I was led up to what almost looked like a blank white wall at the top of the stairs, but it did, in fact, have a door in it and I was ushered through. Seated at a desk in this black-box theater were three young women, probably all twenty-somethings, and all very pleasantly smiling and welcoming me. I was told to read the monologue from my sides, about my character watching his son shoot and sink the winning basket in triple-overtime at the Missouri state high-school basketball championship. "I was never so shocked or so proud in my life." When I finished, the three women were still pleasantly smiling, and the director asked if I might be available for a callback in a week's time. I said sure. There was some friendly small talk about cell phones and land lines and message machines, and how she never picked up the messages, so she had to do it for both of them, and so forth. And then I took my leave, gathered my things and walked out the door and down the stairs. As I was passing through the main room heading for the front door, the intense guy in shorts gave me a loud, effusive thank-you for reading with him.

Coda: I finally got to perform in a Lanford Wilson play, and we had a decent run.